


The Games Afoot

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing worse than a boring staff meeting until Illya comes up with a way to pass the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games Afoot

If there was anything Napoleon Solo hated more than staff meetings, he was quite at a loss of what it might be it at the moment. O'Connell was at the front of the room, pacing, droning on and on about how Section Five deserved to have its budget increased, not so much because it needed the extra money, but every other Section had been given additional funds over the last quarter.

Napoleon looked down at his doodle-covered agenda and fought to kept from sighing. Nothing could help this meeting. Or at least that was his belief until he felt a foot rub against his leg. Napoleon was at the end of the table, Illya was on the side to his immediate right. He shifted, thinking he'd drift over into his partner's personal space. Illya didn't require a lot of leg room, but he was territorial at times.

Meanwhile O'Connell had abandoned the need for more funding and was now ranting about how the restrooms in his Section were not quite as nice as all the others. To Napoleon's point of view, after you've been in a half dozen THRUSH cells, a toilet was a toilet.

Then he felt the foot again, rubbing slowly up and down his leg in as much of a caress as a foot could manage. Napoleon looked over at his partner, but Illya was frowning, apparently concentrating on O'Connell's ranting as much, no, more, than anyone else there.

"I do not understand your concern, Mr. O'Connell," Illya said, his voice carefully neutral to avoid any conflict. "Surely if the facilities work, are clean, and well supplied, what more is required?"

"You Section Two boys wouldn't know. You're too used to buckets and the gutter; the rest of us need more."

"Perhaps you could explain why your defecation requires more dignified methods than ours." Illya clasped his hands before him and regarded the man with all the attention that an eager student regards a much-loved professor. He ignored the laughter from his fellow employees, as if he considered this conversation to be pivotal to the success of the organization.

O'Connell's face reddened and he started to sputter. "I just mean… we deserve more."

"As opposed those of us who are apparently consigned to use buckets and the gutter? I would think the funding would be better allocated for updating our filing system or general office equipment as opposed to fancier facilities."

Whatever O'Connell might have used as a comeback was intercepted by Mr. Waverly.

"I think that Mr. Kuryakin has a point, Mr. O'Connell. I would prefer that further debate be brought to the attention of the Finance Committee."

"Hope you don't plan on sending any messages in the next few months," Dennison, head of Section Six murmured to Illya.

Napoleon tried to keep from laughing, even as the foot on his leg continued to stroke up and down. He was starting to get the impression that Illya was deliberately doing this to make him crazy. Napoleon came to the realization, that, come to think of it, Illya had been doing that all day

In the gym, he'd manipulated Napoleon down onto the mat time and time again, his body seductively close and intimate. To a casual observer, it looked like wrestling, but Napoleon could tell by the way his partner moved his hands, his hips, his body in general. Illya was sending him a message that no one else could hear, but Napoleon, tuned to Illya's body, heard it loud and clear.

In the shower, Napoleon had been forced to turn away and concentrate upon the extremely unattractive legs of a Section Three agent. Illya seemed to be garnering too much enjoyment in soaping his torso, his hands moving slowly across his chest and belly, almost seductively, his eyes half closed. When Illya dropped the soap and bent over to get it, Napoleon had almost groaned aloud. It had taken some harsh and exceedingly strong self control to not grab his partner and drive home his point, as it were, in front of God and his fellow agents.

At lunch, Illya played with his straw, amused some of the secretaries by tying a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue and made a couple glib remarks about other things he could tie knots in. He toyed with the whipped cream in his hot chocolate, licking his spoon long after the last bit of it was gone, his gaze never leaving Napoleon.

And now this. Napoleon might be bored, but Illya was horny. This boded very well for the evening ahead. Napoleon realized that somehow the foot massaging his leg had lost its shoe and was slowly migrating upward. Always one to take advantage of an opportunity, he let his legs splay and then bit his lip as that foot and its very talented toes found home.

The meeting might have dragged on for others from that point forward, but for Napoleon, it couldn't last long enough. But even the best of things drew to an eventual close and notes were shuffled, the folders were closed, and people stood to leave.

Without a backward glance, Illya, now resplendent in two shoes, walked out with his fellow agents, carefully avoiding O'Connell. It took Napoleon a few more minutes before he could or was willing to move.

 

 

 

Napoleon checked the temperature on the oven and dropped it a few more degrees. The lasagna was already cooked; he was just holding it to temperature until his MIA partner showed up. Illya was supposed to be bringing wine and dessert and was due half an hour earlier. Napoleon was thinking of using his communicator when he heard the knock on his door.

Even though there were very few people who knew where he lived, he still looked through the peephole and grinned at the visage looking away in mock annoyance.

"Where have you…?" Napoleon trailed off at the sight of his snow covered partner and hurried to turn off the oven. "What did you do, walk here?"

"Just from the station. It's really coming down out there. Springtime in New York reminds me of fall in Moscow." Illya shook the snow from his head, oblivious to Napoleon's glare as the moisture collected on the parquet tile of his foyer. He set the bag containing the wine and dessert down on the small hall table.

"Let me get you a towel." Napoleon trotted off to the bathroom, taking care to not slip in the puddles collecting on the tile. He grabbed one towel for Illya and another for the floor. By the time he returned, Illya had gotten out of his jacket, shoes and shoulder holster and was finger combing the snow out of his hair.

"My liege," Napoleon tossed him a towel, dropped the second one over the puddles and went to toss another log on the fire. He glanced out the window and whistled long and low. True to Illya's word, the snow was coming down in droves. "Good thing we don't have any plans for tonight."

"Oh, I have plans." Illya slipped his arms around Napoleon's waist and held him firmly. Napoleon could feel the chill of Illya's hands through his shirt and the warmth of Illya's breath against his neck.

"Illya you're cold and wet," he protested half heartedly, knowing it did no good. When Illya was like this, it was in Napoleon's best interest to just lie back and enjoy the ride.

"Correction, I am very hot and very wet." Illya's hands worked Napoleon's belt and fly. "Only some parts of me are cold." With that, he slid his hands down under the waistband of Napoleon's shorts and Napoleon gasped as chilled flesh met warm. "For the moment. You liked what I did to you today?"

"What? Drive me crazy, you mean? You do that every day." He felt, rather than saw Illya's smile and he let his head fall back as Illya's hands searched lower.

"What do you think you were inflicting upon me… all day?" Illya's voice had dropped to a whisper and as nice as what Illya's fingers were doing, Napoleon twisted in his grasp to kiss him.

"Your nose is cold," he whispered, finally able to act on what he'd thought about all day, kissing that mouth, sucking in that bottom lip, feeling the familiar body in his arms grow warm and anxious.

Together, without breaking the kiss, they eased down onto the couch, Illya on the bottom for the moment, although Napoleon had reason to believe that wouldn't be for long, not the way Illya had been today and he was right. A moment later, their positions were reversed and Illya was rocking his hips against Napoleon's very attentive groin. And still they kissed.

Early in their relationship, Napoleon had mistaken Illya's intent, but realized eventually that it wasn't as much about the need for sex as it was a need for control. They swapped dominance back and forth in bed, depending upon who was the most awake, the least injured, or the most anxious.

And, as with so many other aspects of their lives together, Illya would acquiesce to Napoleon's will. If he wanted to turn right, they turned right, except when Illya wanted to turn left. It had only taken a couple of times for Napoleon to realize that if he didn't give Illya want he asked for, his partner would eventually look elsewhere. The thought of Illya in someone else's arms made Napoleon almost mad with jealousy. So Napoleon relaxed back and let Illya pave the way, vocally showing his delight as first Illya's fingers, then his mouth found a nipple, the soft skin of his stomach, his genitals. He permitted Illya free access, never resisting, and he was rewarded with a blow job and a climax that made him forget about the snow, the world outside, everything except what existed in this room with this man.

Illya rested his head on Napoleon's thigh, a contented smile on his lips.

"What about you?" Napoleon brushed his fingers through Illya's still damp hair. "Repay the favor?"

"Delayed gratification," Illya murmured. "You should try it sometime"

"With you around? Not likely." He took a chance. "Come up here, I want to kiss you."

Slowly Illya moved, settled down against Napoleon and entwined his fingers in Napoleon's mussed hair, pulling his head back. "I think, rather, I should kiss you." And he did. And Napoleon didn't mind in the least.

Nor did he mind when they finally collapsed upon the bed and Illya instructed him, first calmly and then in a hoarse, tight voice exactly what he wanted done and how. Napoleon didn't mind as the bed moved from being carefully, almost meticulously, made to a wad of wrinkled bedclothes and he most certainly didn't mind as Illya cried and moaned Napoleon's name while he writhed and climaxed in Napoleon's embrace. In fact, in the large picture, Napoleon minded that least of all.

The bedroom curtains were open and the snow was still falling, reflecting a glowing white against a plum grey sky of the city. The room was dark and they were in each other's arms, exhausted, sated, and just a little sore.

"Good thing you were planning to spend the night." They were spooned together, so close it was as if they breathed as one. Napoleon brought one of Illya's hands to his mouth and kissed the broad fingers, then held it against his cheek.

"Good thing," Illya echoed and Napoleon smiled. Many people had seen Illya defiant, weak from pain or hunger, exhausted, but no one else saw him like this. And if Napoleon Solo had anything to say about it, no one would. This was Illya's special gift to him, one given without ties or restrictions, openly, honestly, and lovingly. And while Napoleon might occasionally be bored, life was never dull, not with Illya around to color his world.


End file.
